What keeps one awake
by Silverwing013
Summary: On the morning of my birthday, I did not wake up. I was already awake. I'd been awake for hours.


On the morning of my birthday, I did not wake up.

I was already awake. I'd been awake for hours.

And staring at the walls and all the bits and pieces and odds and ends that I'd decorated it with, things placed up because it felt they ought to be on the wall, like any other place lived in by people. I think my walls might be better off blank, without the clutter. The startling lack of actual photographs containing people and more knick-knacks to eat up the space those types of things should be. Or awards. Certificates. Honors to something or other to show off how supposedly amazing the person living there was to anyone else who walked in.

I think I liked the clutter better on the bookshelf. Stacks of books that didn't really fit with small gifts given by a few taking up space on the top corner. Tucked out of the way, most people just glance over and it is not like it is a surprise to see all the books and so they don't really look long at it, but right in my line of sight with how much I enjoyed loosing myself in stories. Reminding me that I had something of some sort of a real relationship like I saw from afar or read in those stories. Saying that my bouts of feeling utterly disconnected and utterly unimportant in the world wasn't completely true. It didn't really break the cycle of thoughts running in my head when I got like that, but at least I had something in me arguing back against it.

But this isn't what had been keeping me awake all night and the early morning hours leading up to the sound of the alarm that was supposed to be the first thing I heard on the morning of my birthday. The same typical sound heard every morning. Birthdays aren't really an exception. The day was to start like any other. A birthday is just another day. I don't get excited for my birthday. Maybe because I'd long learned growing up to not get my hopes up or have high expectations. I probably have some deep seated issue with the date of my birthday or something like that. But that's nothing special. I'm certainly not the only one.

There is a list to be made here. At least, I feel there should be. A list of things that sound like they had kept me up all these hours. But, as I knew, were not the reason I'd been awake for this long.

One could be in the tall bulk of a man striding around my bed to yank out the cord to stop the annoying beeps.

Or that it was done for the irritated man, nearly as tall, snapping and bitching as soon as it went off.

Past the jerky movements and snarls, it wasn't extremely difficult to see the one who pulled the plug found humor in it, found humor in the other denying he'd jumped due to being startled by it. Humor. Easy banter.

By two extremely tall men who'd never been in my bedroom ever before, who I'd never met before.

Who held knives.

Blood covered knives.

That had been used.

Sounds like an excellent thing to be what was keeping me up for hours and staring at the walls of my bedroom. Tied up as this went on. I had to focus on something.

They were going on and on, asking and demanding and questioning and not believing I knew nothing. I didn't know anything. But I didn't exactly blame them for not believing me. I didn't believe the things coming out of my mouth.

My skin burned and itched and my wrists felt rubbed raw.

But none of these were the reason I had been up for so long.

I almost want to say the truth and my world image breaking into something decidedly fiction resting on my bookshelves was it. Stunned, I felt strongly, definitely played a factor. But stunned could only last so long before it became disbelief. Even if it stared you in the face.

Or, more specifically, wore your face.

And body.

Because as it turns out, a person, a human, doesn't sleep at all when a demon has possessed them and overtaken their body and made them a bystander to their very own life.

On the morning of my birthday, I did not wake up.

Physically, I was already awake.

Mentally, I'd been awakening for hours.

An entirely new perspective on the world.

And one I had, by now, grown completely comfortable with the fact I would not have this knowledge for long. That these two men with knives and special flasks and such to harm a body with a demon, my body, would follow through on their threats. I didn't doubt their words. The ease and humor and banter tied up with snark and anger and irritation, fitted with how they handled themselves with the physical weapons used specially for a demon, it showed they had done this before. Many times. The promise in their words and motions didn't betray a single doubt in my mind that they would kill the demon.

Taking me with it, from what the demon gleefully reminded them, like it'd ever thought a pair of famous hunters like the Winchesters would ever forget that detail.

I was okay with this.

As I stared at these walls I'd decorated in some attempt to feel normal. Not look normal. But just to get peeks of what normal felt like. Or what I thought it felt like. From the stories and how things were told by people. Things I never felt fully connected to.

I didn't have a death wish.

Well, I did. But I didn't. And then again, I did.

It wasn't really surprising since I do know I likely have some sort of depression in me. The hopeless circles of thoughts and negativity drowning out everything and the blankness and inability to feel one way or the other at times. Things that had actually gone down in recent years since I'd moved out of the family house and continued to push out thoughts of being a failure in not going for a huge career and settled for jobs of helping out people as I'd never known what I wanted to be when I grew up other than taller.

This was different.

Those times of being really down boiled down to no one would really miss me. Or the feeling of it. And that I was a failure. Not perfect. Not up to standard. Worthless. No one really liked me. Going through motions.

This time, I didn't want to die.

But I was okay with it.

Considering all of what I'd been forced to watch the demon do while in control of my body, I was more than okay with it. I welcomed dying. For it. The idea and threat and promise of this demon dying was giving me life.

Worded like that, it doesn't seem right, does it?

I stared up at those small gifts tucked into that top shelf corner and wished I could cry, to feel the tears roll hot down my face. Yet unable to because of the same reason I wished I could. The demon. In possession, complete possession of my body.

The notion of this demon dying was giving me a boost of…of…of…

Yes, you fucker.

Die.

* * *

Silverwing013:  
Idea that popped into my head late the other night and typed the whole thing straight out. There's something to it I like, so here I am, posting it. Complete little thing and feelings of temptations of it could be more, holding out to see if a larger story grows or simply marking it a short thing as is, complete. Brain is always trying to grew stories out of many ideas, so I'll hold off a bit and see, but there is something to this as is that I like.


End file.
